neither here nor there
by procras-tea-nation
Summary: on an ordinary, early morning, dean feels a thumb press the corner of his mouth, and then an ordinary ending to a long love story happens.
1. thumb press, emotional mess

**Quick stylistic note:** I do play around a lot with anaphora and repetitive ideas and thematic undercurrents. Mostly this is how I picture some people's thought processes working. You find a way to describe someone's mouth, or taste, and then whenever you experience the sense that phrase or word pops right into your brain again like clockwork. I love emphasizing that idea especially with Castiel and Dean, because I think by now they've probably had the same thoughts about each other a million times, but each time it crosses their mind it feels new.

This is a story that's about ordinary moments in a relationship, and how they add up to something beautiful and wonderful and worth it.

There won't be a solid plot structure, and I won't make you wait for sex scenes, or "I love you's", because that's not how life works. Sometimes you blurt out "I love you" too soon and sometimes your journey with a person starts with a kiss you wanted but didn't intend to lead to more. That's Dean & Castiel. A completely unintended, yet passionate, love story. You don't even have to read the chapters in order if you don't want to.

Please drop a few words or two. Harsh critique or some lovely praise, I don't mind anything at all. Hopefully, you enjoy.

* * *

He blinks, body stiff, cracks his fingers. 1:43 AM. It's late, late, late and at the same time he feels that distance of early morning. Early and late. Some kind of eternal paradox nestled between one length of time. His mind is wandering; but then there isn't much to do when sleep isn't in his biological plan.

He's tired, and then he's not, not really. His jaw clenches a little, and then he's in the room, and there's a lamp on, and this motel is dirtier than the last because he can see the freckles of dust in the light and how it settles on Dean's eyelashes that are circled by darkness. Heavy, burdened. He can see them move slightly. It's a nightmare this time, and his muscles tense and relax and so he sits at the edge of the bed and waits for the inevitable collapse of the collapsed man's world.

2:13 AM and Castiel slides closer to Dean, careful to wake, but expectant. He's going to wake up. Just a minute left. There are traces of absolute and pure vulnerability etched into the lines at the corners of Dean's eyes. The downturn of his mouth. Castiel raises his hand, an extension of wonder, and soothes the crease away with the press of his thumb. Dean's brows knit, and his mouth drops open, and there's a gasp that startles Castiel away from himself, and then he's bent up, eyes wide, searching, landing.

Dean pauses. Castiel stands, awkwardly, unsure of his hands and the time and place and circumstance. Words dance on the edge of Dean's tongue, Castiel feels them forming around his lips, but he knows what comes next.

Running a hand through his hair, eliminating the cowlick he's always had on the right, Dean lets out a sigh. If Castiel knew anything about exhaustion—complete, and utter exhaustion—he knew it by the way Dean sighed. The way he always did when Castiel took too long to come back. When he began to wonder (a small, fragile part of him, at least) if Castiel ever would.

"Y'sonnofabitch," Dean breathes.

Castiel's eyes flit away. He wants to smile, because Castiel has been to the far corners of the Earth, and seen and heard many remarakble things, and no one articulates such a sentiment better than Dean. He wants Dean to smile, too; wants to see the crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Skip to the part where Dean isn't disappointed. His fingers clench, instead. Dean picks up on the discomfort. He fights the urge to throw off the covers and punch this damn angel right in the throat, 'cause if there's anyone who deserves a good ass-kicking, it's Castiel.

So Dean tilts his head down, looks up at him through lashes. He's feeling a little torn, because if there's anyone who deserves a good-ass hug, it's Castiel. And this bitch knows how to play his cards right. So Dean tilts his head down, looks up at him through lashes, and offers him a small smile. A small one. Really, really freakin' small.

Castiel's eyes glue to it immediately. Dean knows Castiel's staring at his mouth, and he knows Castiel wants to act on something, like Dean wants to act on something. But the last time Dean tried, Castiel winged his angel ass out of there and left Dean with open, empty hands to conjecture quietly about feelings and Dean fucking Winchester does not have time for anything remotely close to the words "conjecture" and "feelings".

"I was confused," Castiel suddenly offers, his eyes gaining enough resolve to lock with Dean's. Something on Dean's face shifts, because Castiel reconsiders his words. "I was…scared. To care so much." Castiel pleads, eyes wide and watery blue, and Dean is all practiced deflection and something rugged. At least Castiel supposes he's trying to be. To be honest, Dean looks like he's trying to be upset, and Castiel knows he is, but he isn't, he really isn't. He offers, "You scare me."

It's enough.

Dean's mouth curves to one side, and Castiel's spine locks, hopeful but not too much; and Dean throws his head back in a laugh, but it's bitter, a laugh to himself like he has a private joke at Castiel's expense. The longer Castiel stands there, the deeper his guilt starts to sting. He knows it's not just because he left. It's because he left then, at that moment, and he's been wondering for a few months about what he'd say if he came back and now that he's back he has lost all ability to communicate with the only person he's connected with for thousands of years.

"Cas," Dean starts, and it's low and grumbly, and Castiel waits for the words to reach out and strike him. They don't come. Dean rubs his eye with the heel of his palm and stands, knees cracking and shoulders stretching and Castiel aches somewhere because he's so human, and it's breathtaking. "Cas, buddy—" and he pauses, "you're millions of years old, and you've never stuck it in anyone. I know you were scared." He pats Castiel on the shoulder, and brushes past him. There's that familiar deflection, the Dean-Winchester-he-just-raised-out-of-hell as opposed to the Dean-Winchester-who-loves-Castiel.

There's no running, now. A pause, "Dean," and Castiel catches him on the arm, stopping him. Dean's a pillar of stone, Castiel's palm hot on his shoulder, on his mark, Castiel's mark. The brand. There's something in the air, and it starts at Dean's toes and now his stomach is in knots and fuck—Dean thinks up a storm and Castiel doesn't think at all. "Yeah?" Dean's tongue clicks on the roof of his mouth before he speaks, and he fucking hates it, and swallows, and is swiveling on his heels before he even wills himself to do it.

When Dean turns, it's only a little unexpected when Castiel's lips, rough and dry, land on his. It's kind of nice, even though Dean would've recommended some chapstick had he known Castiel was gonna grow a pair. Castiel pulls away, slowly, still unsure about his hands. Dean laughs, lower but a little less grumbly, and Castiel's face is on fire.

"There," Castiel says, drops his eyes and then raises them.

Something passes between them. Tacit consent. Energy. Something supernatural and Castiel wants to laugh but doesn't know why. Dean shakes his head, and takes hold of Castiel's hands. Dean settles them gently on his hips and, smoothing down the calloused fingers, leans his nose in to Castiel. Dean slides one hand up Castiel's arm, the other rests at the bent collar of his angel's cleaner-than-ever trench coat.

"Here," Dean corrects, barely audible, untraceable. Castiel likes "here" better. Castiel likes Dean.

When Castiel catches the last of Dean's eyes before his own close, they look black, and it's frightening—but he knows it only feels this way because of how Dean sighs into his mouth, and parts his lips wide, and how Castiel's own fingers press him in and it's then, it's then, it's then—he knows he's in love with him.

And Castiel likes that, too.


	2. reclaiming seasonal sunsets

Falling in love romantically doesn't make you fall out of love platonically with your friends and family.

* * *

It's fifty degrees in December, and Sam laughs when he hears people rattling off scientific facts, grumbling about an apocalypse. Sam laughs because it's all he can do, and when Dean catches the hitch in his voice he tries not to notice. He strums his fingers on the wheel of the Impala, smiles to himself.

Since those days Sam likes to listen to the radio. He likes to hear the voices of people talking about nothing, acting normal, being normal. Existing. Sam gravitates to it, always has. Where Dean likes to think he was always going to be pulled by the supernatural, Sam wasn't. He should've been born into a better life. A King of law school and driving a car, a King of paperwork and day old coffee. Never the vessel for the King of Hell.

Red light. Dean takes advantage of the pause in daily life to look at Sam. He's gazing out the window at something distant, and light catches fire in his hair. And Dean could cry, 'cause dammit, if his smile doesn't look like the Sammy he cradled to sleep when the nightmares got too bad. Sam turns. He widens his smile, and it reaches his eyes this time. He recognizes what is probably a pained fondness in Dean's features, and touches him on the arm.

There's a honk behind him. Oh, right. Civilization. Sometimes it's hard to remember when all you've known is an open road and a freaking apocalyptic population status. Frustrated at no one, Dean flips the impatient asshole behind him the bird, right in the mirror, and slams on the pedal.

Sam turns around to catch the person's face, the gradual realization of Dean's nonverbal communication, before they're out of sight in what might have been sixty seconds. Sam gently sighs, "That was real charming," and settles back into the seat. His eyes again find focus on a distant object.

"Yeah, well, let's just say I didn't miss people all that much," Dean grumbles. It should have been tense but it's not, and why would it be?—this is normal. This is the Dean and Sam adventures restarted at Chapter 1. Except it's Chapter 10, and Dean just picked Sam up from his house in Illinois, and they're spending a weekend together while Amelia works and Castiel volunteers at a homeless shelter.

Dean sort of feels rather than knows that this is the first stop of many, and pulls off to the side of the road. Sun setting, light breeze. It's fifty degrees in December, and Sam is smiling so damn wide Dean isn't able to resist reaching out and messing up his hair. "When are you getting a damn haircut, anyways?" Sam shrugs off his hand lightly and peers up at him. Flash of white teeth. Then back to the sky.

Sam never found much happiness in the present. It was always out there, somewhere, he felt he would be happier. Always beyond his reach. Dean knew that. But it was different, here.

* * *

Dad had brought Dean here, once. Just Dean. Sam had wanted to come with, but Dad said it was private, and Sammy just wanted to be a part of it, but he never would be. It was a warm afternoon. Dean swats at a fly and Dad leans against the Impala and says nothing. He almost thinks that's the reason they're there. Dad just wanted an afternoon to watch the sun set with his kid. You know, a dad-son bonding thing. As broken as Dean is he'll take it, he'll fucking take it. Screw the past few years, he's trying, Dean thinks, and he soaks it up like the layers of light in the sky. The fly again. Dean's hand cuts the air.

When the sun starts dipping below the horizon, a vivid pink speck of something greater, Dad speaks so suddenly harsh that Dean flinches. Dean's not as hollow as he is, and the sky isn't as bright as it was just a few minutes ago. He can't pretend he gets it. He can't pretend that he understands the careful words his Dad chooses when he talks about Sam, like he's a broken thing. Like one day he's gonna shatter. Dad's words are cryptic and Dean realizes this isn't bonding time. It's a deadbeat, sorry excuse for bonding time. Dad's spine jumps off the side of the Impala and Dean's eyes hit the ground. The ride home is silent. Nobody tries to break it. Nobody ever does.

Sammy's asleep when Dean opens the door to the room. The part of him that's tied to the fucked up genetics of his father makes him pause, stay still, just watch. He hasn't held Sammy in a while. He's been trying to get him out of needing someone so much. He needs to grow up. Man up.

And then all at once that just doesn't fucking matter. Dean lifts the covers and moves into Sam, gathers him up in his arms like he's the last precious thing on this planet, and to Dean he is, he really is, and he holds him tight. Sam sputters awake, sleep in his eyes and dreams in his voice. "Dean." His name makes him embarrassed when Sam says it, and he buries his head in Sam's shoulder, eyes pressed into thin lines. "Yeah, Sammy," he whispers, "It's me. Just go to sleep." Sam shifts and his arms encircle Dean's side. When Dean feels him smile he grunts and makes him promise he never uses this against him in no game of truth or dare or some shit, because dammit he's got a lot of dirt on Sam.

But Sam's back asleep, so Dean says it to no one but himself.

* * *

After that, Dean started bringing Sam to this spot. Some little valley on the cusp of Skokie. Sam's grown fond of it, and sometimes Dean heard him whispering about it in his sleep. How much he wanted to go back. How much it felt like safety, a feeling he never got to know anywhere else.

Dean pulls him close, and holds him like he's the last precious thing on this planet. He always will be.

Because he's Dean's Sammy, even if Sam is just Sam now.

Even if Sam's got a girl—hell, a woman—and doesn't call as often, and doesn't carry a blade. And Dean is Sam's Dean. Even if he's got two blades to carry, and a fallen angel to cling to at night, messy kisses and pleading promises like Castiel will disappear if he doesn't tell him every night he loves him.

It's fifty degrees in December.


	3. heaters hum and lips pray

No, really, sometimes you just want to say "I love you."

* * *

Hum. Some distant hum. Dean's ears catch it in between consciousness, a dream state where time passes something ethereal, until you wake up and find time hasn't passed at all. A dream purgatory—though he's not always sure he wants to use that exact phrasing. A low hum, faintly buzzing in his ear.

It's a definite pause before Dean realizes it's Castiel's voice in the corner of his neck, his nose lightly touching the small hairs there. Dean shivers, small at first, but sure and grand the next time the needles prick up his spine. He grunts, more to himself than to acknowledge Castiel.

An eye flutters open, the other pressed against the pillow. 3:12 AM.

Dean considers ignoring Castiel's breath, and his vibrating voice, and the hands that are tracing circles into his body. More marks. Like scars, but only different in that these marks can't be seen. These aren't the deep nocturnal gradients he'll leave on his throat with his teeth. These aren't the hot red lines of a passionately determined handprint. These are inside. And when it comes to Dean's insides, Castiel always leaves a mark.

Castiel's hand retracts from under Dean's shirt, where he was dragging rough fingers across Dean's chest, and lightly pulls at the cloth on his arm. The sudden removal of Castiel's hand makes Dean feel cold. It's unfamiliar. He doesn't remember when it became weirder for Castiel to not be touching him.

Shifting onto his side, Dean exhales and tucks an arm underneath a comfortably modest pillow. The window shades have enough room between them to let in gentle fragments of light. Pale blue and white. They fall over Castiel's form like wax—framing him in such delicate confidence. In a word, he's beautiful.

Castiel stares at Dean, pleased by the prospect of his desires—whatever they were this time, Dean wasn't sure. But he knew enough of Castiel to imagine what possibilities were in store. Castiel didn't have too many human necessities, but when he did, they were something fierce and startled him awake and sometimes Dean couldn't even walk out of rooms without being shoved back up against a wall and claimed like it was Castiel's real reason to raise him out of Hell.

Then there's a change. Something flares quickly behind Castiel's eyes—a beat, a feeling, a touch—something flares and then it's gone, and Dean is looking at these eyes of his. They're frank. They say, "I am looking at you." It's 3:18 AM. Dean's face floods with heat. Castiel blinks, tired lids and black eyelashes. Dean drinks him in, and feels Castiel's breath, sweet and warm like wine. His stomach does that knotting thing—a feeling he's learned to tie to Castiel's presence alone. Castiel's thumb reaches up and traces his bottom lip. Despite himself, Dean smiles slightly. There's peace in the silence.

Softly, "I love you." Dean doesn't flinch. Castiel doesn't seem to expect him to. He presses his dry lips to Dean's, completely and utterly chaste. Then he turns suddenly, and faces the wall again. Dean is confused, and aroused, and staring at Castiel's back as he settles into bed and pulls the sheet tighter around him. Well, okay.

The room stills.

It takes a moment, but the words start to press down on Dean's lungs and even though he's laughed at any and every romantic movie since he learned how, he gets it. That stupid thing that stupid protagonist gets every time. It's not as epic. There's never a sudden swell of music. No dramatic close-ups. He almost expects some violins. Instead he has the buzzing of the heater in the room and Castiel's exhales hidden in between.

It's then that Dean know he's in love with Castiel, and it's taken time, but really no time at all.

Castiel knew before he did. Not surprising, at this point.

He reaches out carefully; and suddenly, undeniably shy, he lightly pinches the back of Castiel's shirt. Right in between his shoulder blades, where Dean has spent countless hours imagining the flex and pull of Castiel's magnificent wings. He's never seen them, and he's not sure he ever will. But he's got time.

They've got time.

His fingers spread to lay a flat palm on the spot between blades, and Castiel shudders. Dean doesn't know if he's asleep or not, so he whispers it to himself first, "I love you." Now that he's given himself permission—thanks, Dean—he whispers it again, louder, "I love you." Castiel doesn't move.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

Castiel twitches beneath his palm, and sighs deep. Each "I love you" Dean offers takes the lead out of Castiel's voice, lightens it. So Dean keeps going. He says it differently, varies his intonation, tries funny voices that wouldn't work with the phrase in any other circumstance. Castiel's asleep, he's gotta be; but it doesn't deter Dean anymore. He starts whispering it again, exhausted and his eyes barely open.

Then, on the cusp of sleep, Dean breathes, "Cas," and it's the prayer Castiel has waited for his whole life.


	4. the difference between hunger & hungry

Sometimes when you love someone you also want to fuck their brains out. Coincidentally.

* * *

He knows the second his order arrives that it was a good idea.

Castiel eyes Dean's hamburger possessively. Whenever Castiel is having a particularly human day, Dean takes full advantage of it. And yes—he means _full _advantage. The darkness of his eyes is making Dean feel funny things, and he was hungry but now he's _hungry, _and Castiel's giving off the same vibe. Checkmate.

"It's not even a regular craving," Castiel stammers, though not entirely taking his eyes away as Dean takes a mouthful, letting some of the juice trail down his forefinger. He dips his nose down and looks up at Castiel as he sucks it off, slowly dragging his lips over it. There's a loud smack that doesn't go unnoticed by Castiel. His eyes turn hazy.

"Sure it's not," Dean licks his lips, "except for the fact that you're a pretty regular meat craver. On average." He shrugs the innuendo off his shoulders and it hits Castiel like bricks. Castiel's exhale sounds a little shaky, careful—of the two, he's the one who's conscious of his surroundings more. But now he's thinking about it. He's thinking real hard.

There's a settled silence in the diner. Old people everywhere, eating carrot soup or something disgustingly digestible, and a hot waitress Dean likes to smile at. Makes him feel good every now and then to get a little recognition.

There's the added bonus of Castiel's tacit jealousy, which makes him fuck Dean so hard into oblivion he screams like a chick. It's always after that fine example of contortionism that Castiel's face makes this hilarious shift where he realizes, "You wanted me to be jealous, didn't you?" Dean, as if on cue, will peer up at him innocently. The curl of his eyelashes will reply, "Not at all," and Castiel's guaranteed kiss, just a press of smiles, never fails to give him shivers.

Something warm stirs him from his daydream and fucking fantastic meal.

Castiel's hand is on his inner thigh—and it is absolutely, positively time to go. "Aw come on," Dean starts, "I'm not even halfway through—" Always one for dramatic timing, Castiel's hand slides farther up and brushes the tip of his cock and holy-fucking-hell, just like that, he's done with his burger.

Fumbling with his wallet, Dean places some nondescript amount of money on the table as he jumps up from his seat. Castiel is out the door and Dean is following him like he's chasing the fucking ice cream truck down the street. Before the door shuts behind him, he hopes no one's gonna chase them down for possibly not taking care of the full check. (Considering if they do, they're gonna get a high definition viewing of some downright amazing porn.)

He feels blinded by immense, almost painful desire, and can't even keep track of where that borderline demonic angel went, until a hand is grabbing his arm and pulling him in the alley at the side of the diner. His cock feels heavy with anticipation, twitching, and it's spreading up to his stomach. He flinches. Castiel faces him, his lips slightly parted, and a bright, pink tongue slowly wets his bottom lip. Dean feels paralyzed. Castiel's a black widow and Dean is the fly trapped—in a completely hot way—in Castiel's woven web. He briefly meditates on that image and tries not to think of it as a kink.

Dean blinks, and it was just a second, he's sure of it, but Castiel is right up against him. Those perfect hip bones jut out slightly, and Castiel's hands push the fabric of Dean's shirt up. He's sure of himself. Dean enjoys the roughness, more than he probably ever thought he would. There was always something so fucking hot about a chick taking control and riding him, but when Cas does it, it's _mind blowing_. He could almost mean that literally, what with Castiel being a fucking tank in the sack.

Skin on skin, and Dean moans. No shame, here, man. These sudden sexual outbursts from Castiel don't happen often enough. It's like a werewolf and a full moon type deal. Except imagine instead of shedding skin he just sheds his clothes and gets enormously hard instead of hairy.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, wrenched away from another image by Castiel's teeth on his neck. He's actually—oh, God—Castiel's growling into his neck. It's these times Dean thinks Castiel is reading his mind. All the while Castiel's hips are pressed so tight against Dean, and he's so hard he feels Castiel through his jeans and the pulse is unbearable. Unbearable. Castiel rolls his hips against him, and Dean breathes out a long, steady stream of air. Castiel's mouth opens wide on his jaw, leaving a small bite, then a press of his lips on the apple of his throat.

Dean's fingernails trail slowly down Castiel's back, and he arches, momentarily distracted from the work on Dean's neck. Dean smirks, proud and confident, before he grabs Castiel and turns him round. Now it's Castiel pinned against the brick wall of the alley, and Dean feels his impatience growing. Normally he could do foreplay for hours. He can't quite say the same for now.

Castiel's eyes are impossibly dark, the light from the street lamp's casting a thin part of his face in yellow. Dean kisses under his right eye, then at the corner of his nose. He feels Castiel's stubble against his lips, and he's so fucking hungry, kissing Castiel's lips open until finally, finally, their lips blend together in some mess of absolute necessity. Dean doesn't know where he ends and Castiel begins. His hands frame Castiel's face, lock him in place, and Castiel moans into his mouth. Fuck, this is exactly what he needed. Castiel is exactly what he's needed.

Castiel's hand lays flat on Dean's stomach, cold, and Dean jumps a little but just feels himself grow harder, and then Castiel's other hand reaches to unbutton his jeans. Dean practically whines, having stopped rolling against Castiel to give him an easier time of undoing his pants. He hears a zipper click and then the chilled, rough fingers are around his cock and he's panting into Castiel's lips. They don't kiss, just breathe, Dean's hand gripping Castiel's hair tight and the other strong against the wall.

Castiel pulls, and Dean pushes, bucks, Castiel working him just like he should. There isn't a word in the entire fucking dictionary for how good Castiel does; but Dean isn't just a taker. He's a giver. And if there's one image he enjoys, it's the look on Castiel's face as he sucks him off, or lets him ride on top. Dean feels himself getting there, a combination of Castiel's practiced fingers and the image of Castiel's messy hair, parted lips burning through his mind. Castiel can feel Dean coming to a head, and lets go, and if Dean didn't know the tactic better he would have fucking thrown a tantrum right then and there.

In the spirit of their power play, Castiel pushes him roughly back, the brick digging lightly into his jacket. In a matter of moments, that feel like hours, Castiel is on his knees and taking Dean into his mouth with eagerness. Dean gasps, and it's too much. Castiel's own erection is getting increasingly difficult to ignore, but once Dean is finished he knows his own needs aren't far behind. His tongue trails the underside of Dean's cock and he shudders, his fingers threading through Castiel's hair adoringly.

"God, Cas," Dean rasps out, his breath visible in the air, and Castiel's tongue and lips explore the inside of his thighs. He licks the head of his cock and Dean's so close, so impatient, and his fingers involuntarily grab a handful of Castiel's hair and then Castiel takes him in again. His hips jerk and there's a fucking fire in his stomach. It's a matter of seconds before Dean comes, hips slow moving and riding out the wave. Castiel's lips are gone and Dean tucks himself in, half-heartedly, before he presses his fingers against the fabric of Castiel's pants, feeling him. Castiel's eyes slide closed, and Dean rubs slowly, watching his face twitch in little places. Castiel isn't a wham-bam kind of dude. Dean's realized that he's willing to endure a wait, as long as it's worth it.

So Dean makes him wait. His free hand comes up behind Castiel's neck, and lightly touches the hairs on the back of his pale neck. Dean's close enough to kiss, but he won't. Castiel already feels like he could be going insane. The light touches, Dean's hand easing into his jeans. He feels Dean play around, explore, touch above his boxers. Dean traces the length of Castiel and keeps watching: how Castiel breathes when he thumbs the tip, how his lips edge open when Dean unbuttons, and opens, and begins to work at a steady rhythm. Castiel's hands keep a steady grip on Dean, finding a comfortable docking at his hips.

Right where he is, Dean noses into the corner of Castiel's neck. He kisses around his jaw, down and across his throat. Dean's teeth trail on Castiel's collarbone, nipping here and there. Castiel's arms reach up to encircle Dean against his chest, and the lower Dean gets, the more Castiel sees stars against his eyelids. Kneeling, Dean lifts up Castiel's shirt to open his lips against Castiel's stomach. His back arches, and Dean smiles, keeping everything just above where Castiel needs it the most.

His tongue darts out to lick the crease left by Castiel's hip bone, and Castiel practically begs, "Dean, please," and Dean thinks he hears a few curses intermingled with more "please" and something that sounds like his name in the back of Castiel's throat. Dean smiles again, pressed so close to Castiel's cock he can practically feel his resolve weaken. Castiel's knees begin to shake, and just when he thinks he can't take anymore of Dean's mouth anywhere else, he feels his pants tugged downward. A perfect pair of lips press up his thigh, and lick just under his cock, down and around, and Castiel's gone. Dean's tongue is amazing, and active, sucking and taking such great care, and his fingers wrap around the base.

If Castiel didn't know what heaven was, he'd assume this was it.

His hips jerk forward, and finding the ground again at his two feet, his fingers violently grab Dean's hair. He's trying to find leverage against Dean's lips but he can't stop rocking up to meet his mouth, and Dean's 100% okay with that. He opens his eyes, and stares up into Castiel's face, which is tilted downward. His lips are moving, and he looks like he's praying Dean's name, and Dean feels himself getting hard all over again. Castiel's right eye crinkles—his tell—and Dean can feel him building beneath his lips. "Dean, Dean, Dean," he hears, and keeps his eyes open as Castiel comes between his lips, because he's angelic, and it's surreal and wonderful, and Dean is so in love with the picture he stays there. Long after Castiel has done up his pants and recovered some sense of reality, Dean peers up at him, and Castiel plays with his hair.

A beat. Castiel smiles, and it's kind. Dean stands to meet him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Castiel's eyes are soft, and satisfied, and his hands again grasp Dean's hips to pull him close. Dean leans in and kisses him. It's not needy. It just is. It's what home feels like and reminds him of warm apple pie days and for a minute he mistakes the artificial lamp light for a sun, and loses himself in Castiel's sudden inhale. They stop to breathe, and a thought strikes Dean.

"By the way," all smugness and glistening eyes, "I was right about your craving for meat."

Castiel's lips form a deadpan, "Perhaps," but they leave the alley hand-in-hand, and Dean is content to tally another win on the Dean vs. Castiel "I'm right and you're wrong" Scoreboard.

And Castiel doesn't really seem to mind.


	5. bare feet on sunday-yellow grass

What you learn to appreciate most is the laughter.

* * *

For Castiel, the right kind of love was found on a Sunday morning. It had little to do with religion.

It's a hot and hazy day in July, one of those days where sprinklers are a god-send. The sun is too inviting, too tempting. Even if things got too hot to handle, the prospect of seeking refuge in air conditioning bothered Castiel. He isn't a man—(a celestial being)—a man of artificial pleasures. Simple, yes. But not artificial. The idea of a day spent anywhere else but on the yellowing grass, bare feet buried in it, is a day wasted.

He's standing, eco-friendly water bottle in hand. Dean saunters next to him, shirt rolled at the elbows and Castiel wonders how he could be so comfortable in such heat. He begins rambling about a few things, and Castiel's just content to listen. His voice sounded something like wind in the winter—above, around, surrounding you with a feeling that made your insides burn a little when you tried to breathe in. At least, that's what happened to Castiel.

Dean pointedly gestures at Castiel's water bottle. He had never wrapped his head around the idea of an eco-friendly anything.

"Water bottles are made of plastic, Cas," he starts, "and if it's plastic, it can be recycled. So now you're just being redundant." With a cheap smile, he throws his head back and takes a full swig of water. Dean Winchester saves the day again with his use of logic. Castiel practically hears him think to himself, "Man, this angel sure is lucky the all-knowing human is here to help."

Castiel heard people talk in line at the grocery store. It might seem like trivial conversation, but apparently everyone was adamant about how horrible tasting Aquafina was. Something about the politics of tap water. It's Dean's favorite. Castiel particularly enjoyed the idea of Dean looking at something so widely unappreciated and finding something to love about it.

If Castiel had become anything, a romantic might be one of those things. He might also be a stand-up comedian.

When Castiel emerges from his memory bank, Dean is looking at him, fondly. It's no longer a look like Castiel is something in need of repairs that Dean wants to take home and fix up. It's different. Castiel's sunburnt from the inside, out. He wiggles his toes in the grass.

"You should snap a photograph to ensure the possibility of staring at me for longer periods of time."

Dean smiles, just a twitch at the corner, "Yeah, you—you know that's not how it goes, right?"

Castiel's head turns smoothly, and his eyes are steady and sure. He's got the angelic-statue face on, and it used to make Castiel look less human, but now? Now it's just some kind of wonderful. Dean's breath completely catches in his throat. (It's a hot day, alright, and he probably just needs to drink some more water because it's gotta be the heat making his body do all these weird things.)

He takes another swig and turns back to look at Castiel, whose eyes catch the light. His face is completely deadpan.

"Of course I know," Castiel eyes him carefully, casually, "I was just fucking with you."

They look at each other, a few moments, before Dean's eyes flare with a lot of love and his laugh is bouncing out of him, because it's _Cas_, and then Castiel is joining him in the laughter, dimples pressed in deep. Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, and Castiel leans into the touch. "You're something else," Dean's hand sweeps down Castiel's arm, still breathing out laughter like he can't be bothered to let it go. It leaves a trail of goose bumps on Castiel's skin, and despite himself, he closes his eyes. Still feeling the graze of Dean's fingers. A cool hand stroking a hot surface.

Castiel opens his eyes and reaches out to trace the line of Dean's jaw, thumb pressed on his lips. Dean melts down like ice cream, and Castiel kisses him honeyed and smooth. When he pulls away Dean feels like the world's in Technicolor, and Castiel's lips look vibrant pink. He thinks of a day when his mom brought home strawberry ice cream and he told Sam the color was way too fucking girly; but later that night he snuck into the kitchen to have a taste. It was sweet then. Even sweeter now.

"Sunday Morning," is playing on the radio.


	6. everybody needs somebody

"I couldn't tell you anything I learned in high school; but I can tell you the number of freckles on his face and his childhood dreams, what kept him awake at night and what got him up in the morning. I knew him better than any book, and likewise, found greater joy in learning him than I did any other subject."

* * *

"Despite what others in my garrison used to say, I'm quite the singer, Dean."

"I have a strong, _strong_ feeling I'm going to regret this."

"Oh you won't—I swear it."

"I don't know, Cas."

"Have a little faith."

"Isn't that how I got stuck with you in the first place? Christ."

"He was a friend of mine."

"Will you just sing the freakin' song, already?"

Darkness makes Dean's insides turn, because he can hear Castiel move, and can feel the all-too-familiar thrum of Castiel's heart leaping into his throat. He can't see much about his frame, except the gentle curve of his spine as he steps towards the window, internalizing the lyrics away from him. He's definitely nervous. Dean can see the tension in those angular shoulders. Stronger than he looks.

Castiel pauses, suddenly a little unsure. He falters, but his luster lights up the room, "You know, I—I sang this many times when the angels in my charge would doubt our mission. Our existence. It's—an old song. You may not…like it, necessarily." He fiddles with the wooden window pane, nails gently etching tiny scratches. Dean's legs swing off the bed, pale blue moonlight reaching out to touch the tips of his toes. "I want to hear it, Cas," he says, and Castiel's head turns to emerge the straightness of his profile. His chin dips in doubt, but Dean reassures, "I do. As long as it's not Maroon 5," Dean laughs, slight, to himself; and it's enough to make Castiel fully face him. Dean's elbows rest on his knees. He looks up at Castiel while he walks over, body bathed in the night. He resists the urge to reach out and run his palm over Castiel's bare skin, trace the lines of his hips above his sweatpants.

"If you're sure you want to," Castiel begins, "then I was wondering if you'd let me sing it before you fall asleep."

Dean's heart drops. It's half out of his knee-jerk "I'm a rugged manly-man" reflex and half of the fact that he's frighteningly in love with someone. Castiel watches his perfect mouth open to say something, anything, and then watches it close again in a moment of pure, human inability to put to words what is being felt. He smiles at the corner of his mouth and Dean's eyes flit there, drawn in. "Uh," he breathes, "I mean, sure, Cas. Sure. Yes." His eyes are wonderfully wide, and Castiel admires the way his eyelashes curve up to meet the bone beneath his brows.

They look at each other.

Dean's fingers lightly grab at the fabric of Castiel's pants, Castiel shuffling lightly to bump his knees against Dean's. Still looking. Small smiles. Dean's hand raises to thumb the line pressed into Castiel's body, the one he'd claimed as his go-to spot. Castiel's hand comes up to rest on the side of Dean's face, and his eyes memorize every single physical facet of Dean. "It's overwhelming, sometimes, to look at you," Castiel whispers, low like it's a secret he's saying, and it's important Dean keeps it between them.

"Well I think I should be the one saying that to you," Dean says, tracing circles. "I mean, you're—you know what you are," his hand skims up and down Castiel's side. Castiel's eyes slide closed. His right brow furrows a little more than the left, and that doesn't escape Dean's focus.

"I don't think I do, Dean," Castiel's breath comes out scattered. Dean stands, slowly, both hands now holding Castiel at the hips. He noses the spot on the right, underneath Castiel's jaw. Castiel feels him press his lips there.

"You don't? I thought angels were supposed to be knowledgeable, or something," Dean says it at his ear, arms enfolding Castiel like he's nothing at all but everything. "Or something," Castiel echoes, and his hands twitch before finally settling over Dean's shoulders.

"I know plenty of things, actually," Castiel corrects, finding it increasingly harder to talk with Dean's hands touching and skimming everywhere. "Mind sharing a few," Dean questions, again pressing his lips in places that do not encourage Castiel's willingness to small talk. Castiel's psyche somehow snaps into the present, and he's blissfully aware of many bits of knowledge. Once his lips part, he can't seem to stop.

"I know how long you let yourself think you were worthless. I could tell you in exact days, minutes, seconds, but I'll settle for years. Almost your whole life, curiously. I can tell you about how Sodom and Gomorrah wasn't about sexual orientation. I can recite a few commandments Moses left off. I have a list in my mind of every species that is, has been, or will be. The most fascinating ones died out a while ago, unfortunately for you and your kind. I specifically enjoyed a species of frog that resides in Madagascar. Endangered. I can tell you the number of freckles that you have—

(Dean is still, listening as best as he can and trying to keep up with the steady stream of facts pouring out. When Castiel mentions his freckles, he grasps on tighter.)

"—which you have a great deal many, Dean. For such a long time I tried to count them all but you'd always walk away before I had the chance to finish. I can tell you the moment I knew I felt about you differently. Conversely I can tell you the moment I knew you felt about me, differently. And the separate points those around us noticed it as well. Body language is a peculiar thing, though all the same revealing. I can tell you that the song I want to sing is a hymn about mutual love and protection. Because you have been damaged, and so have I, and I can tell you that I think it best represents what this is. I can also tell you that I've sung it before, while you were sleeping, while I washed the plates and took the garbage out and gathered myself after a fight and if I couldn't sing it, I would hum it, in my head, whenever I got the feeling I needed to remind myself it's a path we're both walking."

A long, steady silence.

Lead lines the airways to Dean's lungs, and he wants to collapse in Castiel's arms like he's the strong statues outside the cathedrals he never got the courage to walk into. He knows he's holding Castiel a little too tightly, but it's necessary, it is fucking necessary. Because Dean feels like if he doesn't hold on tight, he's going to float away, like a red balloon fresh out of air.

Most of his life he's clung tight to something because he was afraid, and dammit he's doing it now. Not because he has to, not because Castiel is his obligation, or his reason for living, but—he just wants to. He wants to, and why wouldn't he?—why wouldn't he want to hold the one shot he's got at something worth his battered and bloody and flawed efforts? He wants to. He wants to.

Castiel returns his urgency, mind busy but lips still. He buries his head in Dean's neck. Soft and sweet, he whispers, "Dean." Castiel breathes out, Dean breathes in. Both feel an ache for something tangible to grab onto—so they choose each other. Dean presses into Castiel's cheek and then pulls back, just an inch, to catch Castiel's eyes.

"You think," Dean says gently, "you could sing that song now?"

Dean sighs. It's a relief he didn't know he needed. Castiel bumps his forehead lightly against Dean, still holding tight, "Yes. Of course," and then Castiel is singing, and it's barely a song, barely religious; it's a lovely voice blanketed in surrealist sound. So low, so low, so low. Dean feels Castiel's song thrum in his chest, against his ribs, through his heart and against his neck, pulsing. Dean falls into the sensation of Castiel's arms around him, warm and sure, and the song that's in his ears.

When Castiel stops singing, he doesn't know.

Their silhouettes become one against the morning light.


	7. that's all

The right love, at the right time, fills a hole you never knew you needed filled.

* * *

One nondescript day they finally watch the X-Files on Netflix, Dean stretched across the brown leather sofa-bed with indolent ease. Castiel existing against him, pressed chest to chest. They take turns arguing about who is Mulder, and who is Scully, based on particular idiosyncrasies they've become aware of in the past few years. Somehow it always winds up with Dean submitting to the title of Scully, just to listen to Castiel impersonate Mulder's countenance—gravelly voice, and all. (It's pretty fucking hot.)

Credits are rolling, and they're warm with post-laughter breathing and muscles that are laden with cotton contentment. Dean cracks a few fingers, then all in one swift push of his palm against his knuckles. It's duller than the sound of bones breaking, but in an instant Castiel remembers them all: the times bones broke and veins bled and they were pushed, and pulled, and shattered.

Quiet and tentative, "Dean?"

"Mm'yeah," blurs Dean, fingers arching into place like spider's legs.

"You saved me," Castiel says. "I love you." Simply.

Dean's head lifts of its own accord to look at Castiel. His eyes wide and black and unafraid. "You saved me, too, Cas." Castiel breathes lightly and Dean can feel his nose graze his chin. "I love you," he says to the ceiling, but his hand is drawing ornate patterns across the line in Castiel's back. Dean pauses, allowing Castiel to say more—but he doesn't.

"That's all," comes Castiel's curt reply.

And that was all.

* * *

In Microsoft Word, I saved this as, "finally I'm done with you fuckers," because Dean and Castiel have been poking and prodding at a corner of my brain for the past three weeks relentlessly. I kept imagining them washing dishes and doing ordinary things and having conversations. For the sake of being cohesive, I end this story here. I think 7 chapters is enough of little ficlets.

I think I've already spoken too soon. There's no way they'll let me rest.

I'm alright with that, though.

Thank you for reading if you got this far, you brave little soldier.

(you're too precious for this world)

cheers,

geenon


End file.
